A Subtle Art
by broomclosetkink
Summary: John Watson is attempting to play matchmaker, Sherlock Holmes has no interest in being an Alpha despite his biology, and poor Molly Hooper is always, always, caught in the middle. Omegaverse.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N:** It's not close to PetraTodd's wonder of smut, but I felt the need some Alpha Sherlock. So much praise to MizJoely for beta-ing!

**Disclaimer**: I own nothing.

It happens slowly and almost entirely unnoticed. Sherlock Holmes, for all that he is one of the single most perceptive creatures in the vast, wide universe, is shockingly _not_ the one to notice it. (If he had, he would have made public and incredibly humiliating deductions about it: the fact that he remained silent on the matter proved it had crawled in under his radar.) It stays in the shadows, lurking and unseen, until John Watson attempts to casually putter around the kitchen in his usual, _I want to talk about something but don't know how to bring it up_ sort of way.

"Um, Sherlock," he says, waiting on the kettle to boil. "I was...I was wondering about Molly."

Stationary at his microscope, Sherlock debates pretending to be in his mind palace. But John would know it for a lie – only moments ago he had agreed to a cup of tea – _and_ his interest had been piqued. Molly Hooper? John is asking after Molly...but why?

The only logical conclusion that Sherlock can come to is John's wish to ask his fellow doctor on date. Which is mad, as there is no reason why he would need to bring the subject up with Sherlock. Oh, unless he thought Sherlock might be...annoyed? Upset? Nonsense. Why would it bother him?

(He aggressively ignores exactly how bothered he is at the thought.)

"Were you?" he asks, voice perhaps just a shade deeper, tone just a hint darker, as he lifts his gaze up to spear his blogger with it.

"Yeah, well...the thing is, Sherlock, I've noticed – well, actually, we've _all_ noticed, that you –"

"All?"

" – have been – what?" Ripped out of the flow of his words, John bobs in the water for a moment. "All of what?"

"All, you said, 'we've _all_ noticed,' which indicates a group of which you are a part. Who is this all?"

"Oh, I did?" The scowl John wears is one he wears often; it says, clearly, _I fucking hate it when you do that, you dick_. "Well, you know...me, Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson, Mycroft –"

"Mycroft? Why have _you_ been talking to _Mycroft_?"

"Because someone doesn't like to answer his bloody phone, that's why."

The impending argument is cut off by the kettle shrieking in that painful, comforting way it has. John prepares the tray (they are both in the kitchen and thus there is no need for it, but the motions seem to calm him, so Sherlock refrains from pointing out how absurd it is). "The thing is," John picks steam back up while pouring for them both, "I – yeah, we – we've all noticed that you've been spending quite a lot of time with Molly since you came back."

"Of course I have been." Sherlock hopes his expression is every bit as annoyed as he actually is. "Molly and I are friends, we work well together, and she's almost completely stopped stammering." Is it truly so astonishing that he is friendly with someone who happens to be a woman? What do they all _think_ of him?

"Yes, I know, but – the thing is –"

"Oh, spit it out, John. This culture isn't going to study itself," snaps Sherlock, while simultaneously accepting his tea. (It's a wonder John doesn't toss the scalding liquid in his face.)

"You've been smelling her, and its getting weird." Spreading his hands, John takes a stance of confrontation. "You threatened Anderson with physical violence when you caught him in the morgue flirting with her –"

"Someone had to save the poor woman!" Sherlock somehow manages to spit out, even past the lump of astonishment in his throat. "And I don't _smell_ her. Not any more than I smell anyone or anything else."

"You smell her, Sherlock. You get right behind her, and..." Hovering his hand below his chin, an approximation of where the back of Molly's head would be were Sherlock standing behind her, and takes a great sniff of air. He even twitches his eyes, as though he's fighting the impulse to flutter them shut. "You do _that_, and I'm telling you, Mrs. Hudson thinks it's so indecent she had to have a lay down after she saw it."

"Perhaps I was admiring her perfume?" asks Sherlock, edgily. He _does not_ like where this conversation is headed. "What's so terribly indecent about that?"

"Because sometimes you, well, you _growl_ at her."

Sherlock, for lack of a better and more refined reaction, gapes. Openly. "_What_?" he asks, as dangerously close to a squeak as he can come. "I don't _growl_, I am not a dog."

"You growl, Sherlock. Kind of like...like..." Making a low, rasping gurgle, deep in his throat, John attempts mimicry before violently slashing the air with his hands. "No! I can't do it, but it's a growl, alright, I've asked everyone who's heard it, and they agree. You growl at Molly Hooper, and I think it's time we had a conversation about Bon –"

"Don't you dare say it," warns Sherlock, thrusting one long finger at his best friend. "No. And who have you been speaking these vile and vicious lies to?"

"Angelo, for one." Nodding, John gestures, as though Angelo is standing right behind him. "Yeah. When we all went to dinner after we solved the case with cannibal chef, you remember?"

"_We_ did not solve a case, John. I solved it, you were both merely there while it happened."

John twitches, but ignores Sherlock's assertion. "Angelo noticed when that bloke with the fluffy hair was trying to chat Molly up, and you got all defensive."

"He was _married_, John. Was I _not_ supposed to tell her?"

"Lestrade's noticed it, and Anderson –"

"Oh, well, if _Anderson_ believes it, it must be true." Sherlock glowers.

"You bring her food. You never used to bother, did you? But now, when we're going to be working quite a while, you always bring her something. You let her wear your _coat_." Both sets of eyes in the room turn involuntarily towards the Belstaff, unseen but a palpable presence, hanging mutely with Sherlock's scarf.

"She was cold," Sherlock answers, though maybe he's just a shade less defensive than he should be. He does like how, even now, he can sometimes catch faint whiffs of Molly's scent from his coat. More than that, he _quite_ enjoys it when Molly smells like _him_. But that's a blow-by of staying with her on-and-off while he was chasing down Moriarty's empire, and setting fire to it all. Isn't it?

Doubt begins to creep in, swiftly followed by panic, which hides behind its older brother, anger.

"So, what? Just because I happen to be an Alpha, and _she_ happens to be an Omega, now I'm obviously fawning over her? Afraid I'm going to – to toss her across a lab table and have my way with her? Hmm? Or maybe you're worried you'll come home and find us in the living room, _knotted_?"

John hisses in a breath, so shocked he actually takes a step back. Even Sherlock winces after he speaks, biting the inside of his cheek. Seen as both sacred and completely filthy, knotting just _isn't_ talked about, not outside of raunchy movies, historical texts, and biology classes.

The two men stare at each other, intensely uncomfortable with the subject Sherlock has pulled out into the open. In desperation, Sherlock plunges on. "Molly and I grew close during the time I was in hiding, and I won't apologize for it. She has been nothing but a good friend to me; more than that, she quite literally saved my life. Neither will I apologize for the fact that yes, John, that is part of who I am, no matter how I do not fit popular culture's representation of a male Alpha. I am sensitive to scent, and of course Molly's is pleasing to me; she is a dear friend. But to suggest that I am one of her heat cycles away from brutally ravaging her –"

"No, no, you've misunderstood. We – _I_ – I just think that maybe you've grown more attached to Molly than you might have realized. And I thought, perhaps, we needed to discuss Bonding. Or just dating in general." Ears turning red, John tries to smooth over what this topic of conversation has led to. Unfortunately for him, the damage is done.

Wordlessly, Sherlock stands. Still in his pajamas, he marches to the living room, and pulls on his coat.

"No, Sherlock, don't. I'm sorry I even brought it up, okay?"

Now involved in arranging his scarf, Sherlock firmly ignores him. He realizes halfway down the staircase that he's left the flat wearing his slippers, but is far too stubborn to turn back. He hails a cab, ignoring John's head sticking from the window, and his shouting.

He gives the driver Molly's address before flopping back, sulking darkly.

-X-

Upon the completion of cleaning her bathroom, Molly exits the now sparkling, sterilized room to find Sherlock on her couch. She hadn't heard him come in, but that was nothing new; not long after faking his death, he had a copy of the keys to her door and deadbolt made. Since then he seems to make it a point to appear randomly, mostly when Molly least expects him.

By the look of it, he's in one of his moods. Wearing an expression that speaks of a toddler in the midst of a tantrum (_I'm never speaking to you again, __**so there**_!), Sherlock lies on his back and attempts to glare a hole in the ceiling. Toby lies curled on his stomach, purring contentedly.

Toby, Molly learned much to her displeasure, _loves_ Sherlock. He doesn't tolerate him, as he does her; instead he follows Sherlock room-to-room, and seems convinced he must be touching the consulting detective anytime Sherlock isn't in motion. He even chases the ties of Sherlock's dressing gown when he paces, which turns the whole thing into an event so hysterical Molly has trouble breathing past her laughter.

"Look at that face," she comments as she passes through the living room, on her way into the kitchen. "One day it's going to stick like that, and then where will you be?"

"Don't be foolish, Molly; permanent facial paralysis would cause my facial muscles to become deadened, not remain in an expression of deep thought."

"Oh, deep thought, is that what they're calling it now?" Putting away her cleaning supplies doesn't take long, and neither does washing her hands. "Looks more like a pout, to me. Do you want a glass of water?"

"Molly Hooper, I do not pout. And no, thank you."

"Sherlock Holmes, you pout more than my nieces and nephew combined. Don't deny it. Who's insulted your massive intellect this time, then? Mycroft? John?" On her return trip into the lounge, Molly catches Sherlock's faint flinch. "It was John, wasn't it."

"I detest how observant you've become," grumbles Sherlock, lifting his head and shoulders. Molly takes a seat on the sofa, one ankle tucked under the opposite thigh before Sherlock collapses against her, head in her lap. By now, it is a familiar pose to them. "We had a row. A row about you."

Doubly shocked (Sherlock is rarely this forthcoming when he's one of his moods), Molly spends a long moment blinking at nothing. _Her_? John and Sherlock had a fight about _her_? "Why?" she asks, taking a quick sip of her cold water, before sitting on the end table. "Did I...did I do something to upset John?"

Honestly, she can't imagine what it was. Oh yes, things were tense for the first few weeks after Sherlock returned, but all that is behind them. They had a nice row, they both cried, and John thanked her for saving Sherlock and keeping him safe; Molly thanked him for taking Sherlock back at 221B, as he had spent the past two years driving her _completely_ mad. So what could it be?

"It's stupid," Sherlock snorts. "_He's_ stupid. You didn't do anything."

"John isn't stupid," Molly chastises, dipping her fingers into Sherlock's curls. He relaxes slightly at the touch, eyes moving up to meet Molly's. "What's happened?"

"I...he thinks..." Struggling for words isn't a state Molly is used to seeing Sherlock in. The look on his face isn't just anger, now, and not even resentment; it's outright embarrassment, much like a teenager getting caught snogging by a parent. "He thinks we're...that I have feelings for you. He says I _growl_ at you."

A flush of humiliation makes Sherlock's cheeks rosy as he grumbles, "I don't _growl_. I am not an animal."

For a moment, Molly wants to go to Baker Street and smack John Watson one. Out of all people, he _knows_ that Sherlock struggles with his biological make-up and urges, more than most Alphas ever have. He rebels violently at the popular image of a male Alpha, a man who is all muscle and lust and instinct, a man who puts his body far before his brain.

"You _aren't_ an animal, not at all," Molly reassures him, lengthening the stroke of her fingers through his hair, the brush of her short nails against his scalp. "Maybe you do rumble occasionally, but that doesn't make you less of a man. It's part of who and what you are, he can't expect you to not show any signs whatsoever of being an Alpha." Pausing, she tries to work out what she wants to say next.

"The thing is, he's not like us. You know? He doesn't understand. I'm an Omega, and just like any other Omega, I am somewhat appealing to you on a biological level. Now that we've become friends, you...you've become comfortable with me. It's instinct. You can't turn it off. That's not bad, though, it's just...part of who we are." Wincing, Molly wishes (not for the first time), that she was better with words. That explaining herself came easily, like it does with Sherlock, who can speak so eloquently even when he's tearing someone apart. "It doesn't mean what John thinks it means, is what I'm trying to say."

"Yes," answers Sherlock quietly, his gaze gone thoughtful. "I do know. Thank you, Molly."

"I don't know what John was thinking," Molly continues, her thoughts tumbling recklessly forward as they so often do. "It's not as though you and I...well...as though that would _ever_ happen between us."

Sherlock goes rigid. All the fluidity coaxed into his limbs by Molly's attempts at soothing him, both with words and playing with his hair, evaporates like water into mist. "Why? Is there something terribly illogical about it? You once wanted me a great deal. I could smell it. Sometimes I still can."

True to form, Molly's tongue ties itself up in knots. She doesn't quite know how to answer; Sherlock's ego is _so_ incredibly fragile, and she's just wounded it. As massive as the thing is, she's surprised at how easily it's punctured.

"Not illogical, no. I – I just mean that you don't – you don't see me like that. As a woman. Which is _fine_, because I know you don't see anyone like that. Not anyone! I know you had a...that you identified Irene Adler by not her face, so, obviously. So, of course I know th-that you do, um, do. Things. With women. Just not with me. Not with most people. Only with a few. One? Maybe? It's rare, I know that." Groaning, Molly presses the heal of her palm to her forehead. _Christ_, it's not fair how bungled up she gets around Sherlock. She doesn't _want_ to know how much of an idiot he really thinks she is, though she does imagine.

Sherlock sits up, and Toby hisses at being jostled to the floor; tail in the air, he swishes angrily to a patch of sunlight, collapsing there to clean his genitals while giving Sherlock the stink eye. Molly takes the sight of Sherlock in, panic welling up in her stomach.

"Did you really wear your dressing gown and pajamas over here?" she asks, finally registering his clothing.

"I left in a hurry," answers Sherlock, lifting his nose in the air. "I'm hungry, now."

Grateful for the change of subject, no matter how abrupt. Molly leaps to her feet. Busying herself in the kitchen (keeping away from Sherlock) sounds positively heavenly right now.

-X-

Contained in the backseat of a cab and on their way to Bart's, John attempts to be as casual as possible. He takes from his pocket a twice folded sheaf of papers, passing them companionably to Sherlock. The consulting detective blinks twice at them, caught somewhere between annoyance and suspicion. "Just something I thought you might find interesting," says John, giving Sherlock and a smile and shrug before he turns his attention to his phone.

His apparent disinterest in Sherlock's reaction doesn't fool the detective one bit. The tension in John's shoulders and the faint, nervous jiggling of his left leg tell a story of hyper-awareness and anxiousness, as clear to Sherlock as incoherent shrieking and jumping up and down.

"If this is another attempt to help me find a 'reasonable hobby' to keep the boredom away in between cases, I must assure you that this will be as much a failure as your last attempts." Still, Sherlock unfolds the papers, curious to see what John has thought up for him to try this time.

He does not find a helpful guide to bee-keeping or sports or even war reenactments. Instead he finds, much to his surprise, a treasure trove of information on asexuality. And more than that, assurances that an asexual being may have a relationship with a sexual being, so long the lines of communication and expectations are open and clear.

"I just thought you might find some of that helpful," says John, still not looking at Sherlock. "And so you would know it's okay. You know, if this is what's going on. And I'm sure Molly would be willing to...to work and invest in a relationship, even if it wasn't what society falsely considers 'normal.'" Suddenly appearing proud, John finally looks up, smiling almost boyishly at Sherlock as he bobs his head.

Inexplicably, Sherlock is touched. Irritated, yes; John really has no business forcing his way into such matters, but it _is_ a sign of how deeply he cares for his friend. Sherlock may not be an expert at friendships, but he does know that what John does, he does with only the best of intentions.

"An asexual alpha. That's what you think I am?" he questions, quirking up one eyebrow.

John shrugs. "Why not? I've read about a few. Things may happen when their Omega goes into heat, yeah, but that's biology, it doesn't mean they're not asexual. I'm just saying, you know? If anyone would be willing to give it a go, it'd be Molly."

"Thank you for the concern, but I assure you, it's misplaced." Mouth twitching, Sherlock attempts to find the proper phrasing. "My disinclination to act on sexual urges does not mean they are not there. A thoughtful gesture, but unneeded."

Humming a wordless answer, John shrugs, going back to his phone. "Well, if you change your mind, or have questions. Or something. I'm always here. Okay? We can talk about anything."

The remainder of the cab ride is done in silence, though Sherlock makes sure to roll his eyes and huff a few times, just so John doesn't get it in his head that they need to have regular conversations involving 'emotions' and 'feelings' in reference to Molly Hooper. Or anyone, actually.

Once arriving at St. Bart's and making their way to the lab, they find Molly at a microscope. Her greeting is absented minded and vague; clearly she's analyzing interesting samples from her latest 'patient.' Sherlock considers nudging her aside and looking, assured he would find the answer quicker than she would (not an insult, simply a fact), but he recalls hot coffee poured in his lap and all his experiments being thrown away or contaminated. Deciding it's best to leave Molly on her own, he simply nods in greeting before taking the area next to Molly's, a bit put out at being forced to the secondary and older microscope, but unwilling to make Molly move.

"Oh, good," John mutters, perhaps ten minutes later. Or has it been longer? Irrelevant; Sherlock eyes the virus in his slide intensely, attempting to determine what it mutated from. "So glad I was brought along to sit on my arse and twiddle my thumbs."

Sherlock grunts.

"Sorry," says Molly, and Sherlock takes the time look at her from the corner of his eye. She's still frowning, and her eyes are distant. But she tries to smile, and looks directly at John. "You can go in my office, if you'd like. I have some books, you can use my computer..."

"I'll go to the cafeteria. Thanks, though."

John leaves. More silence. Sherlock tries to focus on his work, and finds it hard. He keeps thinking of John's assumptions, of Molly's assurances that there is nothing more than friendship between them. But why does he? There are far too many _emotions_ and unknowns, and he isn't sure about any of it.

"John believes me to be asexual." Gaze firmly on his work, Sherlock listens to Molly's surprised sputtering.

"I – what? Did he tell you that?"

"He gave me information on asexual romantic relationships with sexuals." A pause, in which his mouth goes oddly dry (maybe he's becoming ill?), the silence corrupted by the sound of Molly's shoe squeaking against the run of lab stool. "He wanted to assure me that he believes you willing to work at a relationship with me, even if I am asexual."

Another pause. This time, Sherlock _wants_ to find Molly's gaze, to read her thoughts and unspoken body language. He doesn't give in to the urge, not even when Molly knocks an empty petri dish from the table with her elbow.

"What?" she squeaks, toppling from her stool to pick the dish up. She crouches there, and when Sherlock _finally_ allows himself to look, she's on her knees peering up at him, her eyes huge and somehow unfathomable. "Are...are you? Asexual?"

Annoyance tightens his gut. Is this what she thinks of him? After growing so close, Sherlock can't imagine that she would believe it. Oh yes, he does his best to keep his distance from sex – so messy, far too many attachments – but it should go without saying that he is hot blooded enough for it. That he is human, and certainly _Alpha_ enough for baser desires.

"Of course not," he answers, far more scathing than necessary. "Don't be stupid, Molly, it's beneath you."

She flinches, blushes, and stands. Her fingers begin twisting the dish round and round, nervously. "How was I to know? Or John, even? You...you're not exactly forthcoming, Sherlock."

"And oddly enough, you've also told me I'm _too_ blunt. What an unsuited combination."

"Pointing out the secrets of everyone around you isn't the same as sharing your own." There's heat in Molly's words, a low simmer of frustration. Not anger, not really, but it has the promise of turning into it. This change in emotions kicks up her body heat, releases endorphins and hormones, makes Molly smell like something sweet and tart and badly wanted.

Of course, it only serves to make Sherlock equally as frustrated as she is. (_Useless_! he rages internally, _Pheromone_s_! Scent! What's the bloody __**point**__ of this nonsense?_)

"I'm not trying to be mean, or...or start a fight. But there's no reason for you to be...well, to be an ass, just because I don't know something you've never told me, or even tried to make clear."

It's been in the back of Sherlock's mind for weeks, ever since John's first 'conversation' with him about Molly; or maybe it's been lurking around for far longer, since the long nights after he died, sitting with his back against Molly's bedroom door and smelling her everywhere, _everywhere_. The hair would raise on the back on his neck and arms, because sometimes he could hear soft noises, sighs and smothered cries and electronic hums, and even after hot water and liberal amounts of soap, in the mornings he could still smell herself on Molly's fingers as she passed him. He thought about it too much when she would make his toast, pass him tea, lean against the counter and nibble her own bit of food.

"Is that so?" he asks, voice tight and clipped. He stands quickly, and Molly watches him with huge, dark eyes. She takes a step back, drops the petri dish after he's come close enough to grip her around her narrow waist.

"What are you _doing_?" Voice gone high from shock, she doesn't even try to flail out of his grasp. She simply allows him to lift her to the table, to push files and notes and pens to floor. Pushing her knees apart, Sherlock steps between them, anchoring a hand at the back of her neck.

It isn't about _sex_, he's very sure of that. It's simply about showing Molly that while he may not indulge, he is still capable of it. (Perhaps it irks him more than it should to be thought of as incapable, for any reason.)

"Making it clear," he answers, before lowering his head. He waits just long enough for Molly to see the intention in his eyes, the set of his mouth; he watches as her pupils expand, as her chest lifts moments before she exhales shakily. Her chin lifts, a fraction of an amount, and her hand rises to wrap in the front of his suit coat.

Undeniably pleased at her acceptance, while on the same hand wishing she'd slapped him hard enough to shock sense back into him, Sherlock kisses her. Her lips are slightly parted, damp and soft; he catches her bottom lip between his own, runs his tongue across it and follows it with a soft swipe of his teeth. She gives a noise, more tasted than heard, and finally moves against him, _with_ him.

Sherlock has a moment to realize how incredibly unwise all this is, how _stupid_ he is for giving in to pride and acting to prove himself a 'man', but logical thought is very quickly pushed away. Lust is a jagged razor in his gut as Molly's hand leaves his jacket to curl at his neck. Her touch is gentle, soft, fingertips running up a tendon, tracing the line of his jaw up and back again, following the curve of his ear.

The growl rumbles up from the depths of Sherlock's chest, travels into Molly and invokes a sweet whine. Her head tips even further back, and Sherlock is far too close to savage as he takes advantage of his new angle, of the way she's gone liquid and languid in his grasp.

He wraps his arm around her waist, pushes the hand at her neck up, until his fingers are in Molly's hair, leaving him in control of her. She follows his tugs and pulls and the strength of his fingers, the thrust of his tongue and scrape of his teeth.

"Fuck," she spits out, breathless, when Sherlock drops his attention to her neck, a long, pale expanse. Her scent is stronger here,and the skin is so, so soft. He wants to mark it, to leave a sign on her that Sherlock Was Here and Property Of.

Alarm bells go off, dimly, clanging in the back of his head. This isn't good, isn't good at _all_ – but now she's got her ankles hooked behind his legs, has pulled herself to the edge of the table. Hips rock against Sherlock's, and he can't breathe or think or do anything other than scrabble for more skin. It takes far too long to find it, to yank up the ill-fitted blouse, to thrust his hand under it and run his fingers over the tender expanse of her stomach.

Strength of will and common sense intrude, terrified and furious. Hot blooded, throbbing, and wanting nothing more than to fuck Molly Hooper into a shrieking, trembling mess in the morgue lab of St. Bart's, Sherlock somehow backs away. He bangs into the counter and shelves behind them before he really _knows_ he is moving, breathing heavily and watching Molly; dark red mark on her neck, mouth swollen, clothing and hair ruffled and untidy.

For a moment Sherlock closes his eyes, focuses on her scent; she smells like want and cunt and sweet, willing Omega. His hackles raise, his knees weaken, but somehow he doesn't go back to her. Instead he says, eyes still shut, "I can smell you. I always can. When I stayed with you, and you would fuck yourself. I knew." A moment, a rasp of breath, a memory of the angry shame that came with every unbidden fantasy of sneaking inside Molly's dark room and slipping his tongue in the place her fingers or dildo had been.

"Not acting on that knowledge doesn't mean it didn't provoke desires. But I'm...married to my work, and I have no place in my life for _this_." He finally opens his eyes, finally looks at her. Molly is still ruffled and breathing heavily, though her hands are now clenching the edge of the table she sits on. He sees how white knuckled she is, thinks he can read her emotional state by her eyes and mouth and the tremble of her lips.

It takes several jerking nods before Molly can find the strength to speak. "Y-yes. Alright..I see."

Neither of them move, and the air crackles with tension. What Sherlock wants to do is to lock the lab door and take Molly until neither of them can stand. Even more than this, he desires to take her home, to silence and privacy, to make her scream and beg and cry for his knot. He wonders how good she feels, what it would be to know her taste, to hear his name from her as she cums.

Molly slides from the table, though she hangs on to it, as if she's afraid she'll fall without support.

Quite without his permission, Sherlock's lips peel back, baring his teeth. "I didn't tell you to move," he snaps, and every muscle in his body has gone tight. He actually quivers with the force it takes to stop himself from lunging at her like an animal.

"I didn't think I needed your permission for anything." Up goes Molly's chin, shoulders rigid. She takes a step forward, than another, and the whole time she's looking him right in the eye, daring. She knows, she _has_ to know, that this rankles every instinct inside Sherlock's already tormented body. Defiance from an Omega, an assertion that he is not in ownership of her –

Hand flying out, he takes Molly by the throat. He feels her swallow, hard, but she doesn't smell like fear. She doesn't even flinch backwards. She just _looks_ at him. "You're married to your work." Half mocking, half serious, Molly repeats his words back. "You've got no place in your life for this. Let me go, Sherlock, and prove it."

He flinches backwards, the counter biting into the back of this thighs. In contrast, his hand tightens; not close to choking, but firm. Thumb rubbing across the ridge of one collarbone, Sherlock tries to sort himself out. Molly watches, calm as still water, smelling like sin and redemption alike, waiting. She doesn't push away or lean towards him, does nothing to influence his choice, and for that Sherlock finds he respects her even more than the already substantial amount he did before.

Listing forward, Sherlock sighs as he bends, dropping his forehead gently against Molly's. "What am I going to do with you?" he asks, before kissing the side of her mouth, her jaw, and finally the clever point of her nose.

"I have a few suggestions." It seems that Molly tries to smile, and fails; instead she's drifting further into Sherlock, following the pressure of his hand as he lightly pulls.

"There wasn't much today, but I got you some lunch, Molly. I know Sherlock grumbles when you go off to lunch while he's here. It's supposed to be a salad and lasagna, but I dunno, looks a bit like rubber to me..." Carrying two Styrofoam boxes, with two bottles of water tucked under one arm, John halts only three steps into the lab.

His eyes are so wide they appear in danger of falling out.

Sherlock doesn't let Molly pull away from him, even though she jumped at John's voice and struggled lightly. Instead he runs his mouth along her jaw one more time before pulling back, focusing on her eyes and the frantic throb of the pulse at her throat.

"Oh," says John, and then, "_Oh_. Did I interrupt something?"

"Eat," Sherlock orders quietly. "You'll need your strength."

"Strength?" echoes John, his leer out of place with the chipper tone he uses. "Oh my God, were you two _snogging_?"

"Lasagna, hmm?" asks Molly, pulling at her lab coat and blouse before turning to face John. She's visibly flustered, and nearly trips on her way to take the food from him. "Thanks a lot, I appreciate lunch, John. That's very thoughtful."

"Yeah, no problem. Were you snogging Sherlock?"

Molly practically bolts for her office. John watches her, before turning back to Sherlock, who has once again settled himself at his microscope. He hopes he appears as emotionless and unruffled as he usually does.

"You dog," chortles John, slinking over to Sherlock. Dropping his food to the lab table, he gives Sherlock a chuck on the shoulder before pulling up a stool. "I knew something was going on in that funny old head of yours."

"Something always is," Sherlock agrees, though with a rather acidic tone. "And don't be childish, John."

"Fuck you mate, I earned the right," answers John mildly, eyes twinkling with unrestrained glee.


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: **This chapter was hard for me to write, because keeping Sherlock in character and yet making him do what I want is like pulling damn teeth. Ugh. He gives me such a headache, I don't know why I keep writing him. (Because I'm glutton for punishment, apparently.) All the thanks in the world to MizJoely, who is an AMAZING beta, more than worth her weight in gold. And thank you all for your kind, lovely responses to this bit of nonsense. :) I really appreciate it!

**Disclaimer:** I own nothing.

Sherlock lets himself into the flat as though he belongs, and in truth, Molly isn't terribly surprised. It's been three days since the incident in the lab (an incident that will be starring in her fantasies for the rest of her life), and while there is part of her that is frustrated, angry, and _so_ damn sad that he won't give them a chance, she does know why he's finally come. There's a conversation they need to have, one that will set everything back to the way it was before, and will keep it that way for the rest of their lives.

If Molly hadn't accepted the hardships that are inherent in being a friend of Sherlock Holmes, even the ones that are unique to the two of them alone, she would throw in the towel. But she loves him too much, values his friendship more than sexual satisfaction and a potential Bond mate. She knew what he was when she offered herself to him in friendship, and she always knew it was going to come to this.

"There's leftover Thai in the fridge," she says, gesturing vaguely to the kitchen. Maybe if she pretends to be completely absorbed in the talk show currently cluttering her TV, she can put the conversation off for a bit. Just long enough to really prepare herself, to brace for the impact of a letdown. "Help yourself."

"I'm not hungry." The remote is on the coffee table, and Sherlock snags it only long enough to turn the TV off. He tosses it to the empty armchair, never taking his strange, mercurial eyes off Molly. She's given up on trying to bind them to a single color; they change with his moods – silver, gray, green, blue, swirls of all and colors she swears haven't even been named yet. "You haven't phoned in days."

"You were on a case." Sound, logical, and not a lie: rarely does Molly bother him when he's working.

"I was forced to work with..." a sneer, "Dr. Snyder. I dislike him. He is unobservant and sloppy."

"I _do_ have days off."

"You have a habit of coming in for my cases. You didn't, even though John texted you the details."

A pause, in which Molly shifts uncomfortably. She doesn't bother trying to hide the motions from Sherlock, knowing he'll pick up on them no matter what. "I'm tired, Sherlock. I wanted to rest, and that doesn't involve volunteering to work a murder with you and John, when I could be sleeping in and wandering around the flat in my jammies."

"You didn't text me." Instead of simply verging on confrontational, there are now twinges of hurt in Sherlock's voice. It makes Molly look up at him, careful to note the way his hands ball at his sides, the tightness around his eyes and mouth. "You always text me, Molly, and have since I left to defeat Moran and Moriarty's web. You did not ask me to be safe."

Wincing, Molly drops her gaze. Guilt churns sickly in her stomach, warring with the strange hope that bubbles up in her chest. Sherlock _noticed_? He rarely replied to them, and when he did it was to demand her services in the morgue or help in the lab. Could it be he liked them? That he even looked forward to them?

"I didn't want you to think I was pressing. After what...um, what happened in the lab. With the...stuff." The urge to hide her face behind a throw pillow is overpowering, and Molly hates herself for sounding like a flustered little girl instead of a professional woman well grown. 'With the stuff' indeed; God, she can't even say it out loud.

Although in all fairness, Molly _is_ half afraid that speaking of it, of properly naming it, will cause her to grow far too flushed and overwhelmed with the memory. She can't imagine what Sherlock would do if she pulled him to the couch, crawled on top of him, and proceeded to thoroughly debauch him.

Actually, she _can_, and that's rather the terrifying bit.

"This ritual has nothing to do with our sexual attraction, nor our immense biological compatibility. I assumed it to come from mutual fondness and friendship. Was I wrong?"

"No! No, of course not, Sherlock. I just...I was being weird. You know me." Molly finds her feet quickly, falling against Sherlock as easily as someone who has made the movements a thousand times. He isn't one for contact, but sometimes he _needs_ it, and Molly is always here to provide it. She loops her arms around his waist and squeezes, resting her ear over his heart. It thunders like a tribal drum, and Molly is ashamed of the way it makes her blood warm, the way lust lift its sleepy, previously unseen head, an animal scenting the wind for prey.

Sherlock does not pat her back, or even give her a brief squeeze before hastily stepping away; either reaction would be within the realm of expected and normal. Instead he sighs, tension leaking out of his previously rigid body as he enfolds Molly in a tight grip. He folds around her, nose in her hair, radiating warmth and that beautiful, stirring scent that haunts Molly.

He doesn't just smell like lust, and it does far more than make Molly want to climb Sherlock like a tree. He smells like _home_, like safety and comfort and lazy Sunday mornings wrapped up in blankets, sunshine falling over her face while she watches him sleep. It's the comfort of knowing she isn't alone and is needed, wanted; the blaze of emotions so much deeper and more desperate than simple physical desire.

It hurts when she's apart from him. An ache she has always done her best to ignore, to deny, but she can't. It's like losing an arm and having phantom pains and itches, of knowing it should be there and yet not having it. It drives Molly mad, but the bliss that comes with his return is well worth the insanity and loneliness preceding it.

Of course she knows what it means. Every Omega is taught the signs and reactions, warned of the itching, soul searing need that comes with finding the Alpha he or she is meant to Bond with. It's only Molly's curse that Sherlock has no interest in such things, and so what can she do but accept him as he is? She loves him, even when he had wild eyes and tracks up his spindly arms, even when he's at his most cruel and shattering. It's emotion and primal instinct and biological imperative, all of it so entangled she can't tell one from the other.

She knows Sherlock doesn't need a mate, a wife, not even a lover. What he _needs_ and _wants_ is a friend, and if that is what it takes to stay next to him, then it's damn well what she'll be. Selfish and self-serving it may be, but Molly has spent a lifetime taking care of others, happily and willingly. This she will do for herself, and without regret.

"Molly," he breathes, head dropping to her shoulder. Pressing his mouth and nose into her neck, he murmurs her name again. "Molly...Molly..."

The air around them sharpens and charges. Sherlock's scent becomes so sharp and tart Molly can almost roll it across her tongue, a slick, sweetly sour candy. "Sherlock," she sighs, and before she releases what she's done, her chin is lifted and she's giving him her throat. She hadn't _meant_ to do it, but here it is. A subtle motion to others, but for an Alpha it's an open invitation.

"You shouldn't want me," says Sherlock, fingers finding the pulse in her neck. Molly can feel him shudder, feels as though she's linked up to electrodes as he runs his mouth lightly along her jaw. "You certainly shouldn't allow this to happen. Why?"

"Why?" Molly repeats, eyes closing. It's hard to think with his breath rushing warm and moist over her skin, with his lips brushing against a spot just in front of her ear with every word. "Why what?"

"Why me? Why do you want me?" His hands slip down, curling around Molly's upper arms. It's a loose grip, one meant to draw attention, not to control.

Opening her eyes, Molly looks up at the face above her own. Perhaps to others he would seem the same as always, coldly detached and asking questions simply from scientific curiosity. But she can see the look in his eyes, the taut line of his mouth, even the way he draws his shoulders back, better to pull away when he's disappointed.

Like the other precious few that are close to him, Molly pays attention to his details.

"You enjoy my work," she says, wishing fervently that everything she wants to say will come out right. She knows words are not her forte, but maybe, just this once, they'll serve her well enough to show Sherlock _how_ she loves him. "Do you realize how rare that is? Most men cringe away, even Alphas. But you enjoy it, and we have the most lively, interesting conversations about it. You press me to grow, intellectually. I'm always learning with you, Sherlock, either because you're showing me, or we're discovering it together in the lab or morgue.

"You're...you're an asshole. I'm sorry, but you are! But you can also be funny, and sweet, and you care more than you'll ever admit. I know people call you a freak, but you aren't. I think you feel more deeply than most, and that's why you close yourself off." Pausing, Molly draws in a deep, quivering breath. Sherlock is watching her, unblinking, and it's enough to make her want to shy away. Instead she stands her ground, plunging forward. "I like your laugh, as rare as it is. I like how you and John bicker like an old married couple, and the man you are now that you have a best friend. I love how strong you are, even strong enough to overcome your addictions." Dangerous territory, broaching the subject of his drug use, but now is not the time to hold any of it back.

"You're a brave enough man to face death rather than allow your friends to die, and even though you lived, you went underground to keep them safe and destroy the threat. Do you think most people would do anything of that nature? You're a good man, Sherlock. No matter how much you pretend not to be. And I know you're difficult, you sulk, you have terrible moods, and when you're bored property damage is inevitable. But I love you _because_ of all it, not in spite of it. I love you because...because you're you, good and bad."

Sherlock blinks slowly, mouth slightly parted. He says nothing.

Blush rising up hotly, Molly shakes off his hands, stepping back from him. "It's okay, though," she says, though something quite like sadness is welling up on the back of her tongue, thick and bitter. "I know...I know you don't...I know it's not something you do. And that's okay. Listen, I need to go, um, take a shower. I've got to get in bed soon, I'm going back to work tomorrow, so...so if you have anything you need to do in the lab or the morgue, if there's a murder or anything, though I hope there's not, I'll be there. To help. Just to help. If you need me." Smiling as best she can, knowing it's far more fragile than she'd like to admit, Molly tries to step around Sherlock. He catches her by the wrist, head turning so he can give her an appraising sort of look.

"Molly Hooper," he says, so quietly Molly wonders if she imagined him speaking. "You always surprise me."

"Do I?" she asks, lightly. "That's quite the compliment, coming from you."

"Love, Molly. You said _love_." A light in Sherlock's eyes quiets Molly's urge to flee, then stills her as he shifts, lifting hesitant fingers to her cheek. There is something like wonder in his expression, perhaps even disbelief; Molly wonders, briefly, if anyone has ever given him those words before her.

"I thought you knew? I...I mean, you always know. Especially what I don't particularly want you to. And that one Christmas, you said, 'Miss Hooper has love on her mind,' and I just...I thought you..."

He kisses her. It's nothing like the lab, which was fire and passion, a white hot blaze. This is soft, gentle; Sherlock sinks into Molly, and she opens to him, reciprocates wholly. There is something tentative and shy in the way he kisses her, in the way he palms her cheek and slowly slides an arm around her waist.

Tears prick Molly's eyes, and hope blooms anew. "Sherlock?" Molly breathes as he pulls away, though it is only a small fraction. They share breath, foreheads touching, damp lips only a scant thought apart. "What do you need?" An echo from the past, though this time it carries a much different meaning.

"Deduce me," he orders, voice gone even deeper than usual.

Molly's toes curl inside her socks, while her knees threaten to give out. "What?"

"Deduce me," Sherlock repeats, one hand suddenly busy with gently tugging the band from her hair. It topples down, releasing the fresh, clean scent of lemons. "You've done it before. In the lab, when you discerned that I was sad. Do it again."

Drawing in a shaking breath, Molly searches Sherlock's expression for a long moment. There are shadows in his eyes, but behind them are truths she wonders if anyone else has ever seen. She lifts her hand, palming the angle of his jaw.

"You're scared," she says, quietly. Sherlock blinks once, but doesn't move, doesn't pull away. "But I don't know why, Sherlock. I've never pushed you away. I never would."

"Not like I have you," he admits, and there's something quite like regret flashing across his face. But then his knuckles are running down her neck, fingers sliding down her shoulder to splay across her back. "Body is transport, and the mind is all. I've always believed that, and never had any desire to act upon the urges of my biological make-up as an Alpha. Passing fantasies as a teenager, of course, but nothing that provoked me to change my lifestyle choices. Until you, Molly.

"I'm afraid of what it will do to do me. What others may think." Sherlock sneers, contemptuous of his own regard for the perception of others. "I don't want to be seen as an animal. I am not mindless, or simplistic, or dull. I am more than instinct and hormones."

"We all are, Sherlock, all of us. Every Alpha, Omega, or Beta you meet will understand and acknowledge that our biology does not define us. If the average humans can't understand, well, who cares about them? In this, they don't matter. And no one who knows you is going to believe that you are less of an intelligent man, simply because you're choosing to explore your options."

"I don't feel like a man." The words come out rough, jagged and torn on the edges, as though cut free with a razor and pulled out by force. There's a glint in his eyes, something dark and almost mad, reminiscent of the laser focus he bestows on his work, but darker, verging on feral.

The hand on Molly's back pushes her closer to him, as though she may try and flee. She doesn't want to, though, has no desire to escape Sherlock. Far from it; she wants to bask here, feeling caught somewhere between a worshiped idol and prey.

"I feel mad. Almost feral. It didn't used to be like this, so what happened? You were always a compatible Omega, and I was always aware. But now...now I can't..." Trailing off, Sherlock shakes his head lightly, though he never takes his gaze from Molly. "I can't stop wanting you. Not just sex; I want your scent and your voice and to know where you are, what you're doing, if you're well. Your laugh, even that nervous little twitter that used to drive me mad. The way you pull faces while you're working, deep in thought, and you never realize how ridiculous you look. I want all of it."

"Oh," Molly breathes, because words have utterly and totally escaped her. Does he even realize what it means, what he's implying? She prays he does, or at least that when he allows himself to come to the conclusion she has, that he won't run away from it. Because now more than ever, Sherlock fleeing would break her apart.

"I need you." He speaks so quietly that Molly can just barely hear him; it's a dream, or a wish, or maybe it's real and after all her loneliness, she's getting what she's wanted for so long (and never believed would ever, ever come.)

"You know you have me." An assurance, one Molly thinks Sherlock needs to hear; it does make something in his eyes shift, even provokes a noise somewhere between a whine and a groan to leave his throat.

She tugs, but it takes little to make Sherlock follow her. Walking backwards may be stupid, but she's _terrified_ if she takes her eyes off him, he'll bolt. Molly wonders if he thinks the same, as he doesn't look away, barely even blinks.

Somehow he ends up guiding her. It's dark in the hall, but there is moon and city light streaming in the windows of bedroom. It turns everything silver and soft, blurs hard edges, and it makes Sherlock look like a fallen pagan god as he tugs irritably at her ratty old hoodie.

"I want to see," he demands, and it's so much like himself – as though he's demanding slides or spleens or bacteria – that Molly laughs. It comes even louder as he scowls at her, but it comes to a stop as his hands find their way under fabric.

Molly is nude before she really has time to process; Sherlock wastes no motions, and allows little, if anything, to deter him from a goal. Her clothing lays crumpled and discarded at their feet as Sherlock lets out a shaking breath, and she can feel his hands trembling as he touches her. He's so hot it's unnatural outside of an Alpha in reaction to an in-heat Omega. (Molly isn't due for another month, and she doesn't know if it's a blessing or a curse.) She thinks it must be the reaction of a lifetime of suppressing physical desires, and now, finally, his release.

She reaches for his jacket, and though he allows her to push it down, Sherlock is quick to take her hands when she moves for the buttons on his shirt.

"No," he says, hoarse. "Not yet. I can't. Too much stimulation."

Well, she never imagined it would be _simple_. Not with him.

"Okay. That's okay." Smiling is difficult with how much Molly actually _aches_ from wanting him, from having his eyes on her and seeing how hungry he is. He looks like a starved wolf in winter, desperate and within killing distance of something weak and juicy. It shouldn't be as attractive as it is, but hot damn, it _works_ for Molly.

But she won't push him. No matter how much she _wants_, Molly refuses to press Sherlock, to move too fast and potentially harm him.

"The bed. Lie on the bed." Sherlock licks his lips, tensing like a predator as Molly backs away.

Molly scoots to the center of the bed before laying back, head on a soft pillow. She watches Sherlock take her in, from her painted toes (purple), all the way to the way her hair splays over the pillow and mattress. His eyes linger like a hot touch at her thighs and the curls between; her stomach, soft and pale, her too small breasts. He seems to like them, though, at least from the way his eyes darken and his fingers flex at his sides.

And suddenly, there's a switch thrown. Molly watches the change, sees it come, has seen it a thousand times in the lab, the morgue, while he's on a case. Sherlock has made his deductions, has had some brilliant twist from his mind that pleases him greatly, and now he's ready to begin the show.

It takes an actual effort not to lunge for him when that look is turned on her.

Lifting one hand to the opposite wrist, Sherlock unbuttons his cuff, and begins to deliberately, sharply roll up his sleeve. He never, not once, looks away from Molly as she does so, and she thinks she's going to scream as pale flesh is revealed. He's so buttoned up, so rigidly set in his ways; this is a damn striptease for him.

"The first time I did this in front of you, I thought you might spike into heat." His smile is a knife edge and a devil's promise, and Molly wants it, wants it so much it _hurts_. "I could smell it. The lab smelled like you for days, lingering in corners and driving me mad. I can smell it now."

Eyelids flutter, nostrils flare, and Sherlock breathes _deep_. It's lewd. Molly isn't sure how, but it _is_, and it's fucking brilliant. He's barely touched her and she's so wet her thighs are slick and slide easily together as she squirms, squeezes them together in an attempt to alleviate the throbbing pulse.

Shirt sleeve rolled halfway up his elbow, Sherlock moves to the other one. The buttons open, and he takes a step closer. He folds the fabric, and takes another step. Repeat, repeat, repeat; now he's at the edge of the bed, casting shadows and giving Molly a slow smirk before finally bending down.

He wraps a hand around her ankle, and Molly can feel his musician's calluses. She has to bite the inside of her lip to keep quiet, too afraid Sherlock will be spooked if she lets even that much of her hard fought for control go.

"When I stayed with you, on and off those two years, I would sit outside your door. I could you hear you. The sounds. They _haunt_ me, Molly. The way you sighed, and tried to muffle yourself in a pillow. I still heard." He puts a knee on the bed; the mattress dips. A thump as a shoe falls, and Molly has to close her eyes as he advances further onto the bed once the other shoe has been discarded. He lurks at her feet, tearing her apart in a wholly unfamiliar – and much more pleasurable – way with his words than she is used to.

"Look at me, Molly. Watch me, and don't look away. Every time you do I'll stop."

Molly practically tears her eyelids with the force they're pulled up, her whole body straining as she fists her hands at her sides. Sherlock appears _entirely_ too pleased with himself, and Molly knows his ego is going to be more difficult to handle than ever after this. (A price she's most assuredly willing to pay.)

"Sherlock, please," she manages to get out past her dry throat. She isn't sure what she's asking for; a touch, a kiss, a respite from the lust burning her up from the inside out.

He shivers, and looks as though he's won a battle. "Please?" he repeats, hands suddenly pressing into the mattress on the outside of her legs. He leans over her, all lean muscles and angles, and that damn smug smile is back in place. "Please? You're asking me for something? Bit selfish, don't you think? You tortured me; you _had_ to have known I would smell you, know what you were doing, wanted to be the one provoking it all...but you did it anyway. And I had to sit outside your door and _want_, and listen to you choke on _my name_ as you came."

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry." Babbling probably isn't terribly attractive, but it's all Molly can manage at the moment. "I'm so sorry, Sherlock, please, _please_ –"

He moves one hand, presses it between her lower thighs. Tears of relief prick Molly eyes – she's never, not even _once_ in her life been this painfully aroused. Sherlock has to do little to help her spread her legs; Molly is ready, ready, ready. And this son of a bitch is still _wearing his clothes_. Jesus Christ, what the hell is going to happen when he's as naked as she is, when it's skin sliding against skin?

"Show me."

Molly has to blink past her lustful haze, tries to focus on what he wants. "What?" she asks, struggling to find sense when it's fleeing her in a haze of hormones.

"Show me," Sherlock repeats, and in the yellow fall of light from a streetlamp outside, Molly can see the way his pupils dilate. He stretches out an arm, takes her hand, slides his fingertips over knuckles and scalpel calluses before drawing it low on her stomach. A pause, something like nerves skittering across his face, but it passes (or is well hidden) as he lightly pulls. Together their fingers find damp curls, and Molly clenches her jaw. "What I heard. What I think about far too often. Show me, Molly."

He wants to _watch_. Lust makes her lightheaded, forces a whine, high and desperate, to leave Molly's throat. She doesn't even attempt to put up a token resistance, there's no point and Sherlock would find it annoying enough to probably stop altogether. Coy is _not_ a game he would find attractive, and besides, it simply isn't in Molly to try and deny him. Not now. (Not ever, come to think of it.)

She is _embarrassingly_ wet, and Molly loves it. She feels half an animal, as though she's shedding every rigid social construct and strict expectation put on an Omega – and Alpha, and Beta – in their modern world. They're held to a different standard than normal humans, no matter how the media tries to deny it. They have to be calmer, more restrained, more modest, especially in public, especially with potential lovers.

It's freeing to pull up her leg, digging her heel into the mattress, opening herself to Sherlock. The rest is even easier..._so_ easy, so simple, muscle memory at this point. It won't take much, God knows, especially not with Sherlock's hand ghosting over her own, his gaze as sharply intent on her actions as they are at any crime scene.

He curls closer, rubbing his cheek against the skin of her upper thigh, and Molly's toes curl. So little, and yet it's _so much. _What would be insignificant, possibly even boring, with another man is magnified to a painful point with Sherlock. Molly is hyper-aware of him, of his breathing, of each movement and swallowed down rumble that keeps trying to crawl up his throat.

"Molly," he groans, and then his mouth is on her thigh, and oh fuck, oh _fuck_. "So good, so sweet...wanted it for so long, even if I never wanted to admit it. I've seen enough, I can – let me, let me feel –"

He pushes her hand away, and then it's _his_ thumb pressing down on Molly's clit. She sobs, loudly, and doesn't even care, not now. It's too good, so good, especially when he's pressing a finger inside, and Molly clenches so hard around the incredibly welcome intrusion she nearly wails. He is _inside her_, it doesn't matter in what way, to what degree, it simply matters that she has Sherlock filling her, giving her what she's wanted – needed – for so damn long she can't remember a time when she wasn't half mad from want of him.

"My God, Molly. So much better than even I imagined...you're so _hot_, you're burning me –" Sherlock rears up on his knees, scrabbling to curl his free hand around the back of Molly's neck. He pulls her up until she's braced on her hands, arms extended behind her. He pulls the hand between her legs back, adjusts to this new position, and comes back with two fingers.

Molly keens, and pulls her knee further up, wanting him as deep as they can manage.

"My belt. Molly. _Molly_, my belt – my shirt –" How Sherlock manages to get the words out in between kissing her, Molly is honestly not sure, but manage he does. And it's like _no_ other kiss she's ever had before, with another or the few they've shared; it's deep, wet, searching. Like he's trying to pull her inside him or crawl inside her, as though every single wall between them is crumbling and shattering and there is no Molly, no Sherlock, just them, _us_.

His hand at her neck supports her as Molly blindly attacks the buttons of his shirt. She thinks one or two is ripped off, but that's fine, it really is. He _growls_ when she tries to make him move his arms so she can tug it off, and so Molly leaves it open, dangling.

The belt follows in short order; Molly pulls it entirely from the loops of his slacks, tossing it away. She dimly hears it smack into something, but then Sherlock curls his fingers and it's like white hot fire, and – "That, yes, _yes, oh fuck, __**Sherlock**_ –"

As frantic and nearly out of her mind she is, Molly is careful with his zip. Too slow for Sherlock's liking, maybe, because he rumbles at her and nips her jaw, then her bottom lip. But soon enough his trousers are opened and Molly is shoving them down with hot, greedy hands, his pants going the same way.

Molly slips a hand between her thighs, pushing away Sherlock's (no matter how much she doesn't actually _want_ it gone), palming sodden flesh. He pulls back slightly, mouth open, breathing ragged as he tries to discern if he has done something wrong.

"What," he starts to ask, but stops as Molly smiles – sweet as ever – and uses that same hand to fist him. Palm and fingers slick with her own wetness, the glide is easy. Sherlock's eyes are huge, black in the dim light, and Molly can faintly see a thick red flush high on his cheeks.

He _snarls_. It isn't human, but it _is_ all Alpha, and Molly's head drops back so fast that if his hand wasn't at her neck to brace her, she's afraid she would have given herself whiplash. She strains to show him her throat, tears in her eyes from the force of her desire.

Fingers back, pressing inside – harder, so much _harder_ than before, and it's so good – his teeth, sharp and wet and sweetly painful on the juncture where her shoulder and neck meet – his cock heavy in her hand, the glands at the bottom swollen but not truly inflamed, Sherlock's knot a future promise. The tension rises high, so high, and it's as fine as spider silk, so close to snapping.

Sherlock comes in a hot, sudden rush. He growls and snarls into her neck, breaks skin and brings blood. It's the best kind of pain Molly has ever, _ever_ known.

"Oh my God, Sherlock, _oh my God_ – yes, yes, thank you, **yes** –" Finally, thankfully, the tension snaps. Every muscles goes so taunt it hurts, and Molly sobs and keens and finally wails, a supernova imploding in the darkness behind her eyelids, sweeping her away. The force of it is so great that Molly blacks out, just for a sweet, blissful moment.

She begins coming back down as Sherlock falls boneless to her side. He's breathing so hard it sounds painful, and there's blood at the corner of his mouth. (_Mine_, Molly recognizes, and it's like a little explosion in her cunt, a follow up that makes her whine and shudder and curl her toes.)

After a time, when a recovery has somewhat been made, Sherlock draws his hand up. His seed is on Molly's thighs and stomach, and his pupils begin to expand again as he rubs it into her skin. "You smell like me," he says, his voice deeper, and tone more pleasantly languid, than Molly has ever heard before.

"_You_ smell like _me_," she corrects, unable to bite back a happily exhausted grin.

Sherlock laughs, a soft noise that Molly wants to hear every day from now on, before beginning to flop and wiggle limply in an attempt to rid himself of the rest of his clothing. Molly quickly joins in, so weak and drowsy she's almost a hindrance, but Sherlock isn't much better off, so she doesn't feel the least bit self-conscious about it.

"I need to go clean up." She really does, but moving isn't exactly high on her list of things to do.

"Ugh," grumbles Sherlock, dragging her closer. Despite his previous misgivings about sensory overload, now he is as content as a cat in sunshine, pressing every bit of himself he can tight against Molly. "You smell too good. Wait. Later."

Molly falls asleep, waking (how much later she doesn't know, but it's still full dark) when Sherlock leaves the bed. She dozes until he returns, setting a glass of water on the bedside table with a soft _clink, _before slipping back in bed. He's gentle as he cleans her with a damp cloth, folding it in half to the clean side before dabbing at the sweetly aching bite on her neck.

"I need to bandage this," he says, and Molly can hear the beginnings of remorse in his words. "Infection is the last thing you need. It would hinder your work at the morgue."

"Sherlock." She catches his hand, pulls the cloth away from him. She tosses it at the nightstand, where it plops against her alarm clock wetly. "I wanted you to do it as much as you wanted to. I liked it."

"I _bit_ you, Molly." A pause, in which Sherlock leans close, surveying her intently, looking for so much as a hint of a lie. "Did you really want it?"

"Yes. And I really liked it, and I am not the least bit sorry you did it. Or that I _let_ you."

Whatever Sherlock deduces seems to satisfy him. He worms his way under the sheet and light blanket, curling warmly around Molly. She's shocked, but happy; she always imagined that after sex he would need space, and a lot of it. Sherlock is always surprising her, though.

"Molly?" His finds a breast, curling a hand over it almost protectively. Molly wants to never, _ever_ leave this bed again.

"Hmm?"

"Your next heat cycle is next month, correct?"

"Yeah. Mid-month, I think. Why?"

Sherlock takes a deep breath, one that seems bracing to Molly. He exhales slowly before speaking. "Would you be willing to go off your suppressants?"

A long, hot thrill chases down Molly's spine. She's only ever had one true heat, and that was her first; it broke over her in her fifth form, and mortifying enough, during class. Every Alpha in the school was on high alert – one girl practically smashed a locker in while Molly was rushing to the nurse, obviously torn between chasing after the heat-stricken Omega, or running for safety.

She spent a week at home, crying and hot and coming out of her skin. The day after it ended her mum took her to the doctor, got Molly the suppressants (as well as birth control, which is so different from a normal human woman's that Molly still has to give herself weekly shots, given that her system burns it up so quickly), and Molly _never_ looked back. She didn't want to come into a full heat like her first, so painful, if she didn't have an Alpha to go with her.

It hurts too damn much, when an Omega is alone.

The thought of going into heat with _Sherlock_ is...it is a literal fantasy come true. "You want to have a heat with me?" she asks, craning her neck to look at him.

Sherlock looks edgy, and he's tensed, as though ready to bolt if rebuffed. Still, he manages a clipped nod. "I've never – this was the first time I've – I want to wait for your heat. For the rest."

It's not that he's a virgin that shocks Molly (honestly, she was expecting it), but more how _raw_ he is right now. Open, not cruelly brilliant or driven spare by his massive intellect; he's sweet, and obviously expecting a rejection.

"I'll go off them immediately." What else can she say? Waiting is not what she wants, not really, but a heat with Sherlock – and making him happy, giving him what _he_ wants...that is Molly's fondest desire, at the moment. She's wanted him to open to her for so long, and while it began years before, she thinks it has never been so wide as it is in this moment.

"I knew you would," he says breezily, muscles relaxing. "Sex is far more stimulating than I imagined it to be. And more beneficial – I believe I may sleep again, and after nearly an hour I already had."

"You know, there's a quite a bit that falls outside the lines of vaginal penetration." Molly squirms around to grin at Sherlock, feeling younger than she has in ages. "Just, you know, a suggestion. If you really do want to wait for my heat."

"I do believe research into the matter is required." Sherlock's answering smile is shark-like, and Molly has never been so excited for research in her entire career.


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: Wow, this update took forever. I'm really sorry, and am hoping to get the final chapter out SOON. **

**Trigger Warning: Dirty ass porn, slight humiliation, forceful blowjob, male ejaculate, female ejaculate. **

**Disclaimer: I own nothing. **

It starts as an itch, just under his skin. Ignoring it is ridiculously easy, and Sherlock feels absurdly proud of himself. Is _this _all other Alphas feel when away from his or her Omega of choice? Is _this_ the pull he has heard so many horror stories about?

Ordinary people are so..._undisciplined._

The itch becomes a burn, and it takes slightly more of an effort to put out of mind. Still, Sherlock is mostly unconcerned; honestly, it isn't _that_ bad. Especially not when he has a serial murderer to hunt down. He _does_ love the flashy repeat offenders, especially the moderately clever ones.

On the second day, the burn escalates into an ache...which rapidly becomes a pain so indescribable that not even _Sherlock Holmes_ can find words for it. It is his skin being peeled away, all his nerves revealed to the elements, sensitive and exposed and utterly overloaded; it is withdrawal, but _worse_. The pain burrows deep inside and carves holes into organs, emptying him out. It leaves Sherlock hollow, angry, and so on edge he cannot even _think_.

This is why he avoided acting on his Alpha urges. This distraction is unforgivable, as he cannot work the case for obsessing over Molly. Sweet, soft, _tasty_ Molly; Molly's mouth on his neck, his chest, licking behind his knees; Molly burrowed against him while she sleeps, their legs tangled together; Molly's eyes when she climaxes and the way she gasps-screams-sobs his name; the spine-tingling scent of sex, Molly, and Sherlock so tangled together he cannot separate one from the other.

By the third day, Sherlock admits defeat at the hands of biology, and devises a plan. It doesn't involve bending Molly over the nearest stable surface and violently knotting her, Heat be damned (though he has to grit his teeth and take several deep breathes when he thinks of claiming her in front of anyone who comes into the lab or morgue, of proving who she belongs to and how much she wants him...maybe he would take her in front of an entire class of medical students. Making Molly scream and come apart and swear she'll never, never, _never_ even look at another Alpha in front of twenty, thirty shocked pairs of eyes; jealous because she's _his_, only _his._..)_._ What it _does _entail is perhaps the only way Sherlock will be able to function from here on out.

The prospect of keeping himself sane in such a glorious way is...startlingly welcome.

Molly is in her office, transcribing a backlog of autopsy findings. With glasses perched on the tip of her nose and the corners of her mouth raw from her absentminded nipping while in thought, Sherlock is forced to battle the urge to simply spread Molly out on the cluttered desk and make her scream. This instinct only doubles when he is gifted with the first scent of his Omega, which is all Molly – lemon juice, light perfume, glorious pheromones and hormones, utterly empty of the sharp tang of suppressants and a fucking _siren_ song – but is devoid of _Sherlock_. She smells unclaimed, and it sets Sherlock's teeth on edge.

"Get up." His voice is a whip crack, startling Molly into jumping hard enough to bang her knees against the underside of her desk.

Hissing at the sudden pain, she pushes her desk chair back enough to palm the aching spots. "Sherlock?" she asks, and he wants to drag her out of the chair by her hair in sheer spite. She sounds so _calm_, so...so unaffected by the fact that she doesn't smell like him, that it's been three days since she was screaming into his mouth as he fingered her into oblivion. "Is something wrong? Have you finished the case, or –"

"I said _get up_." Reaching across her desk, Sherlock wraps her ponytail around his hand before pulling. Not _hard_, but strong enough to get his point across. He watches as Molly's eyes dilate and her mouth drops open, tongue darting out to run over her lips.

She rises without taking her eyes off of him, moving closer. The desk is no doubt pressing hard against her thighs, but Molly doesn't show signs of pain. Instead she leans forward, breathing picking up pace. "Sherlock?" she asks again.

In answer, he kisses her. Molly moans when he bites her bottom lip, and Sherlock worries that he's not going to be able to wait until her heat when she knots her hands in the front of his coat and clambers over the desk like a wild thing. Files, pens, loose papers, and God knows what else are knocked the floor as she takes the most direct route to him.

Sherlock bands an arm under her bottom, pulling her the rest of the way over. Blood roars in his ears, and he's so hard it _hurts_, more painful than any erection he's ever had before – ignoring his needs in this instance is simply not an option. Maybe he's too rough with Molly because of this. He _does_ want to punish her for toppling him from the pedestal he placed himself on, far above the masses of mundane people.

If he is too rough, if he is bordering on abusive as he ravages her mouth, Molly has no objections. She's whimpering and whining, arms locked around his neck and giving back every bit that she receives.

Releasing her hair, Sherlock wraps his second arm around her waist, distributing her weight. A tall potted fern is knocked over as he backs out of her office blindly, following the map of his memory. He's growling when Molly breaks away, loudly gasping for air. With fingers tight in his collar and in his hair, Molly's lips find the corner of his mouth, his ear, his neck. Worrying a mark into being just below his jaw, Molly is all hard suction and teeth.

Sherlock nearly trips; he is absolutely going to embarrass himself if she doesn't quit doing _that_.

At the very least, he doesn't slam her into the wall when they reach his planned upon destination. Bang, yes, but not too hard, and with no violence. Of course, he forgets about things like _gentle_ and _finding the doorknob_ to the little break room when Molly opens her legs. Quite without warning, Sherlock is between her thighs. With her legs wrapped tightly around his hips, Molly braces her shoulders against the wall and rolls her lower body in the most deliciously agonizing way possible.

Even to Sherlock's ears, the sound he makes is utterly and entirely inhuman. It is lust, possession, desperation, rage, and something that is not quite (but almost) a brand of submission he is utterly unfamiliar with. The snarl comes from somewhere deep in his gut, tearing a path through his innards and up his throat.

And Molly – Molly _shudders_, moans, and does it _again_.

"I'm going to fuck you so hard you'll never be able to get me out of you," he dimly hears himself panting, hands suddenly tight on Molly's thighs and bottom as he thrusts against her. "There will always be a part of me in you, always, always...everyone will know, everyone will know you're mine...you're mine, Molly – mine – _fuck_, Molly –"

She cries out, shuddering under and against him. Somehow – and Sherlock honestly _does not know how_ – he manages to still his hips, head tossed back as he fights to gulp in air that is simply isn't fresh or cold enough to do him any real good. Even through the layers of fabric between them, he can feel Molly's heat, and it takes little to squirm two long fingers between them, to press against the seam of her trousers.

They're damp.

For the first time since he last shot up heroin, his mind goes perfectly blank. In place of the rapid swirl of his thoughts, of facts and data and observations of the most minute and meaningless of things, he has only a dull roar, a buzz of blood and lust and emptiness. The blank space is filled with instinct. There is no thought, or so little that it is so inconsequential to become entirely meaningless.

He is Alpha. Molly is Omega. Above any and all others, he wants her – no. Want is not strong enough. Needs. Desires. He wants to possess, consume, devour; beyond this he aches to protect, cherish, and fulfill all her needs. Molly is _his_. He is _Molly's_.

It's simple. So simple. _Why_ had he ever questioned this?

Semi-rational thought claws its way back up. He wants Molly's cunt; he needs to get them inside the break room. If anyone tries to open the door and finds it locked, they will assume Molly is taking a short nap on her break, to better finish a double shift, or mentally restore herself after the stress of handling so many brutal murders. This is common, no one will question it.

Beyond this, he wants to _tear her apart_. Sherlock wants – no, again, he _needs_ – Sherlock needs to make her as mad as he is, to drown her in wanting. He wants Molly so lost in him that she can't find her way out, that when he leaves part of his Molly will stay with him. He can't do that right now, not as desperate for release as he is.

Fine. Plans change. He's adaptable, and besides, Molly has already proven how talented her mouth is.

The metal of the handle is cold in Sherlock's palm, and the creak of the hinges when he flings the door open is the most beautiful of music. He pulls away from Molly despite the literal physical pain it causes him to be separated from her, even by the scant distance it takes to pull her from the wall and guide her into the break room.

"Strip," Sherlock commands, while still making his way into the little room.

Molly's eyes are huge and glazed with lust, watching him with the intensity of a wild animal. Shrugging out of her lab coat, the fabric is sliding down her arms when she asks, "Here?"

"Unless you have some strong objection to it." Shrugging, Sherlock shuts the door behind him. It's a lie – he couldn't stop if he wanted to. It scares him what he might do if she said no and meant it. It excites him what he _could_ do if she said no and _didn't_ mean it.

Wordlessly, Molly pulls her blouse over her head. It's all the answer Sherlock needs, and the flimsy lock is clicked into place.

One day he's going to take his time, will turn every bit of his incredible focus and cleverness on Molly; he will learn _everything_ there is to know about her body before systematically taking her apart until she cannot even speak. That time remains a distant future, however. Until Molly is Bonded to him, the wildness will remain, leaving Sherlock frustrated, angry, and desperate.

_If_ she is ever Bonded to him. Marriage is an agreement, a contract; Bonding is physiology so misunderstood that the masses still believe it to be magic. And in this feral mindset, watching his Omega toe off her practical flats and mismatched socks, Sherlock can almost believe that there _is_ something supernatural to it.

Clothing forms fabric puddles all across the floor – Sherlock distantly knows his suit is going to be impossibly wrinkled – and Molly nearly trips over her discarded trousers while crossing the short distance between them.

He's still not completely used to skin-to-skin contact, even after nearly two weeks of physical intimacy. Honestly, Sherlock doesn't think he will ever be _entirely_ used to it. The shock of soft breasts against his chest, Molly's hands at his hips, his neck, digging strong fingers into his back, these are things that leave him breathless and half-frantic. He has imagined, in the past few days, touching another as he does Molly, and finds that while he is sure the sensory input would be quite the same, something basic repels him.

Sherlock has wanted only one specific Omega in his lifetime, and the thought of turning to another is...unsatisfactory. His attraction to Irene Adler was a bit like gasoline and lighter fluid; far too combustible when combined. Few Alpha on Alpha relationships work, and the handful that do require far more sensitivity than Sherlock or the Woman are able to put in.

And he would have succumbed to Molly's lure at some point – Sherlock realizes now that it was inevitable. They have always been attracting opposites, though he denied the pull and tug towards her for so long that he never even thought to question it until John began to point out the (painfully obvious) details.

"Sherlock..." Molly rubs against him in a feline manner, teeth scraping over one flat nipple.

It pulls Sherlock from his mind. He crashes back into the here and now, and is once again utterly and entirely overwhelmed by his physical lust. Filling his hands with Molly does not even begin to satiate the painful need; holding her, gripping her hips and pulling her against him only serves to worsen the pain.

He moves his hands to her shoulders, pressing firmly. "Knees," he manages to spit out, taking a half-step back to rest his shoulders against the door.

Molly's smile is positively salacious. She sinks down willingly, scrambling behind her a moment to snag her lab coat and cardigan. She folds them together before tucking them under her knees, and it makes Sherlock see spots of rage that she can be so bloody _practical_ when he can barely string a coherent sentence together.

He almost – _almost_ – pushes her away and plans a quick escape. What is he _doing_? The only thing that matter is his _work_; he hasn't got the time, patience, nor inclination to be tied to an Omega. Molly has to know this, she must already understand that he is not...he simply isn't _made_ for things of this – this nature –

When Molly's hand circles the base of his cock, tight over the taut glands of his unformed knot, all panicked thoughts of abandonment flee. Sherlock sucks in a deep breath and watches as Molly shoots him a smile, so much like the one given over many over coffee cups, cadavers, and cultures that Sherlock's bare toes curl against the cold tile floor.

Groaning loudly, Sherlock's head knocks against the door as she sinks her mouth onto him. This is _torture_; sweet, wet heat, Molly's sliding hand, and the staggering pleasure when she takes as much of him in as she can. But it isn't _enough_, it isn't what he needs as an Alpha, and he struggles to remember _why_ he wanted to wait for her heat.

"God damn it," he spits, and he's seeing red as he fists a hand in Molly's hair, the other curling around her jaw, his thumb pressing down on her chin. He has just enough to sense under the unsatisfied rage and boiling pleasure to say, "Pull away if I'm too rough, I'll let you go," and he's counting on making her pull away. Punishment for being Omega, for wanting him, for being _Molly_...and more than anything else, a reminder that he always – **always** – breaks the things he holds dear.

Gripping Molly in this way, he holds her still, and begins to fuck her mouth in earnest. Not roughly, no, not at first. He grits his teeth and looks down at Molly, who has both hands curled around the back of his thighs and has become so sweetly passive that it makes fire burn up from the soles of his feet and up his spine, only to rocket through his already seared brain like a bolt of lightning.

Control crumbles, and he exerts more force, sure she will violently pull away, appalled at his actions. Instead Molly squeezes his thighs, hums in the back of her throat, and – and Sherlock can smell her everywhere, her scent rising and mingling with his own. Sweat stings his eyes, but he doesn't lift his hands to wipe it away, truly doesn't even care; all he can focus on is _his_ Omega.

"Molly," he grunts, tightening his grip on her hair, hips beginning too snap _too_ forcefully for what she is allowing him. Still she doesn't stop him, shows no signs of even attempting to back away.

Sherlock's orgasm is sudden and brutal. He curls around Molly, a snarling shout ripping its way out. He isn't sure how he remains standing, but somehow he keeps his feet under him. He comes back to himself panting and braced heavily against the door, his knees weak and very nearly shaking. Molly is nuzzling against his thigh, one hand stroking his stomach as she looks up to him with soft, warm eyes.

"Did I hurt you?" he asks, stroking her jaw gently.

Her smile is a blend of pride and pleasure. "It's sore," she admits with a small shrug, "but not hurt."

"I should not have...used you so...forcefully." It's still hard to think. He has to narrow his focus to do so, as all he wants to do is topple Molly to the floor and bury his face between her legs until she loses her voice from screaming.

"I liked it." Molly's admission is straightforward, without any of the awkward shyness Sherlock was once so used to seeing her display.

It takes him a moment to fully register her words. He hadn't – he hadn't excepted that. She _enjoyed_ being held in place and used? She _liked_ his brutality? Research indicated that women liked tenderness, and while stereotypical Omegas enjoyed domination to some degree, Molly is...Molly to _Sherlock_ has always been so incredibly breakable.

But here she is, glorious hair torn out of her once tight ponytail, still on her knees and seemingly unconcerned with the semen on her chin and chest. Sherlock's breath catches, and he pushes the hair out of Molly's face, feeling as though the world has changed in some intangible but crucial way.

"Statistically, every Unbonded Alpha is compatible on a basic level with nearly sixty percent of unbonded Omegas. The national average of Bonded couples is lower than forty-five percent, while world-wide the average is closer to sixty-five." Sherlock pauses, watching as Molly blinks up at him, clearly bemused by his sudden lecturing. Sherlock can't keep from smiling at her, the feel of it much softer than his usual wont, as he leans down, pulling Molly to her feet.

The weight of her against him is not simply comfortable, it is..._right_. Two halves of one whole, made to slot together.

"It's why I want to wait," he explains. "We're going to Bond when you come into heat."

Molly sucks in a shocked breath, stiffing as she jerks her head up to stare at him. "I – Sherlock, you can't – it can take several heats for it to happen, and sometimes it never does –"

"It will for us. I've checked our blood, and it is shocking compatible. I project our Bonding will begin during our first heat together, though it may not be fully solidified until the second." Sherlock turns his attention to Molly's neck, brushing her hair away from it. It really is the most lovely line, so soft, and when he bites just _here_ Molly squeals and nearly comes out of her skin...

"Oh my God, Sherlock, did you run _tests_ on our compatibility?" Molly doesn't sound angry, exactly. Then again, Sherlock has never been the best at judging emotions when they're being flung at him.

"Of course," he answers crisply, "why wouldn't I? We are two scientific minds, and I wanted to know exactly how well matched we are. If I had the inclination, I could indulge in intercourse with any number of Omegas, as we would have a basic compatibility. However I hypothesized, and was proven correct, that you and I are a uniquely matched pair. No one else would fit us as well if we took different lovers, and Bonding would be impossible. I wished to know what would occur were we to act upon our attraction."

Molly stares at him for a long moment, expression startlingly unreadable. If Sherlock were a different man, he would fidget.

"You asked me to go off my suppressants knowing what would happen if we go into a heat together?"

Sherlock nods.

Molly kisses him as though her life depends on it, pressed high up on her toes and clinging to his shoulders. The tension in Sherlock's chest releases, a sharp snap of a taut chain, and he is quick to respond. He rightly assumed she would be agreeable to the revelation, though for a moment...well, he usually does miss something.

Not this time, though. Thankfully.

Before long, Sherlock has Molly tumbled on the old, fake leather sofa. She squirms under him, sighing heavily and biting the corners of her mouth in an attempt to remain silent, as he lavishes attention on her breasts. The undersides are surprisingly sensitive, and if he bites down on the base of a nipple and sharply flicks it with his tongue, he can make Molly dig her blunt nails into his back and curse.

"Fuck, fuck, _fuck_; Sherlock, please –" Molly's words cut off in a whine as she lifts her hips, head thrashing as she begs.

Sherlock likes the way she says _please_. It makes something dark and old, from a time before propriety and norms, rear its head and growl in pleasure. Sherlock imagines binding her; wrists together, ankles spread, a blindfold over her eyes. Torturing her with kisses and touches, bringing her to the brink and holding her there, on the edge of completion and never reaching it, so many times that she sobs and begs with a voice gone hoarse.

He'll drive her mad with want, as insane as he's become. Only then will he take her hips in hand – roughly, yes, she will want it as rough as he could provide it by this point, he thinks – and fuck her so hard she had no other thought but of _Sherlock_ in her head.

One day, he promises himself, sliding down her body. He leaves red marks on her stomach, darker ones on her hips. Molly whines and pulls at his hair, pushing and wriggling under him in attempts to bring herself in contact with something firm. Sherlock pulls her against his chest a moment, digging his teeth into her the plump flesh at the top of her thigh as he feels exactly _how_ drenched she is.

Molly cries out when he finally hooks that previously abused thigh over his shoulder, and lowers his head to her cunt. Her taste is thick and musky, settling heavy on the back of his tongue. Sherlock thinks he could become drunk on it.

"Please, please, please – Sherlock, please, so close, I'm – I'm so close, please – empty, I'm – I'm empty, it hurts, _please_ –"

Abandoning her swollen clit, Sherlock uses his thumbs to fully open Molly. He pauses a moment, taking a moment to appreciate how _pretty_ she is here – all over, yes, but here especially – smirking as Molly thumps her head against the armrest and pulls viciously at his hair in frustration.

Research into this subject provided Sherlock with a rather staggering list of ideas he would like to practice. This has been one he imagines _far_ too often while in the shower, or attempting to go to sleep on the nights that he is alone.

Sherlock tongue fucks Molly, as forcefully as he can possibly manage. Despite his inexperience in the subject, within a spare few minutes Molly is practically howling, clawing at the sofa and drenching Sherlock's face with a flood of sticky juices. He can't help but groan into her, adjusting his grip and leaning back as as he gives her two fingers, gasping for air as he watches his Molly come apart at the seams.

"You're a whore, Molly." The addition of a third finger is abrupt and startling; Molly curls one leg towards her chest, opening up further. Sherlock relishes in her sobs and the slick, wet sounds as he forcefully fingers her dripping cunt. "Do you know that? You are. Soaking the sofa in your work lounge with your cunt, crying out while I lick your clit and finger you – you're a filthy fucking whore."

Molly wails, thighs and stomach beginning to tremble violently as she curls her body, as though trying to cling to the sensations. "Yes, yes, I'm whore," she babbles brokenly, and her cunt is tightening rhythmically around Sherlock's fingers, juices rolling out with each pulse. "Dirty fucking slag – just want you to fuck me – oh my God, Sherlock, please fuck me, fuck me, fuck me – fuck – _fuck_ –"

Molly screams when she comes; Sherlock growls, reaching out to put a strong hand under her back to support her as she spasms. Sherlock fucks her through it, breathing heavily and clenching his jaw (he'd give up anything, even taking on new cases, just to rise over her and sla inside, to bury his face in her neck and fuck her until neither of them can walk) as he pushes back his own instincts. When she collapses back, though, he doesn't even attempt to resist lowering his head once again, greedily lapping up Molly's pleasure.

"Too sensitive," she gasps, legs and arms twitching oddly as she pulls at his hair and attempts to squirm away. "Sherlock – Sherlock, I can't – _ah_ –"

"Can," he insists against her wet flesh, dizzy from the taste-scent-feel of her. "Going to. So good – you're so _good_. Mine. _Mine_, Molly."

Sherlock's jaw is aching by the time he rises from his kneeling position on the floor, pulling a shuddering, wild-eyed, _just_ on the edge Molly up. He turns her around, placing her hands on the arm rest before kneeling behind her. It would be _so_ fucking easy to press inside, but he's made up his mind, and Sherlock Holmes is nothing if not stubborn.

Groaning as he pushes between her thighs, Sherlock presses his face into Molly's hair as he presses her thighs shut. She catches on to what he wants, tightening her thighs and rocking against him. She's all slick, wet flesh, and her pussy feels so good sliding along his cock – and Molly is crying out as he begins to thrust, moving with him – and it's not what he wants, not exactly, but it's close enough for now, and Jesus fucking Christ Molly is everywhere, everywhere – in his mouth, his hair, slick on his hands, her scent so tangled up with his own he can't tell where one ends and the other begins –

One arm bands around her ribs, and the other catches his releases as he comes. Sherlock is groaning, deep and rough, he can faintly hear it, but all he can truly register is the mind numbing shock of release and the instinct to mark his Omega. He smears his cum against her stomach and one breast, trails his messy hand down her thigh before hitching her higher against him as his hips erratically pump through the end of his climax.

Molly is sobbing – literally, when she turns her face to kiss him, there are salty tears on her cheeks – and her hand is between her thighs, fingers brushing his cock as she tenses and struggles for another high. "Please, oh God, please," she begs, and Sherlock has enough sense to reach between them and fill her with his fingers again.

"Yes, God, fuck my wet pussy – Sherlock, Sherlock, yes – you're all over me, your cum is all over me, you marked me – _marked me_ –" Her wail is thin and high, cutting off quickly as she collapses into a shuddering, jerking mess.

Sherlock gladly follows her.

After a time, when sense is slowly beginning to be regained, Molly covers her face with her hands and bursts into nervously horrified laughter. "I can't believe we just did this in the lounge! I'm never going to be able to see anyone else in here again, not _ever_."

Sherlock simply kisses her neck, feeling impossibly smug and satisfied, before pushing himself up onto wobbling legs. They thankfully take his weight, allowing him to find his Belstaff, where it lies crumpled and discarded on the floor. He brings it back to the sofa, pulling Molly up to wrap it around her, even rolling the sleeves up so her hands are free.

"Sherlock, what – your coat is going to get all...gross." Flushing, Molly holds the edges of Belstaff open.

"I can't work because I can't smell you," he admits, sitting back down. He pulls her against him, pinning her arms to force her to close the fabric and keep it close to her body. "I need to smell us together, otherwise I can't focus."

"Oh." Flushing happily, Molly settles against him. For a time they are quiet, simply content to be in each other's presence, before Molly speaks. "If you think you're leaving here without helping me clean up, you're out of your genius mind."

"I would never dream of doing such a thing."

"Liar."


End file.
